


Just one kiss.

by anubischick



Category: Arrow (TV 2012)
Genre: F/M, First Kiss, Fix-It, One Shot, olicity - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-30
Updated: 2014-11-30
Packaged: 2018-02-27 14:04:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,145
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2695757
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anubischick/pseuds/anubischick
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Reworking and slight fix-it fic for the kiss at the end of 3x01. Spoilerific so see the episode first.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Just one kiss.

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first foray into this fandom which has wormed its way into me, so please be kind if you can, but feedback as always is virtual caramel and chocolate cookies. 
> 
> How that scene should have played out. Don't get me wrong that kiss in 3x01 was good, heartbreaking and beautiful, but I wanted more. If this was it, if this was 'over once they talked' I wanted passion. But they were in a crowded hospital corridor and it was off the cuff so that wouldn't have worked. So I rewrote it, the way I wanted it. Hopefully you'll like it too. For the purpose of this story Sara doesn't die at the end of the episode, she's still going to die so we get the great 'die down here' scenes, but she gets an extra day's reprieve.
> 
> Also the dress is this one; you may want to look at it before you read. http://i.imgur.com/FDnAyzi.jpg

"We need to talk".

"I don’t want to talk. Which, for me, I know is a little unprecedented. But… as soon as we talk, it’s over."

"I’m so," her hand reaches out quickly and her fingers still his lips.

"No."

His eyes close briefly and his hand reaches up to wrap around her slender one, pulling it reluctantly away from his face but keeping it ensconced in his own, he takes a breath to try again.

"No." she repeats, quietly but with a determined edge. "Not today Oliver, you don't get to do this to me today."

He watches her, gaze locked on hers as she speaks, unable as always to tear his eyes from her.

"John and Lyla just brought a new life into the world, well Lyla really but you know it's considered a joint effort even though she did all the labour and the pain and the.." she stills for a count of three to prevent herself from babbling, "they did a good thing, a joyful thing, and we get so few of those, so few really happy moments and this is one of them, and you're not going to ruin it for me. I won't let you."

"Felicity." he begins.

"No," she says again, though she loves the way her name falls from his lips. She'd counted; he had 27 different ways of saying it and every one made her feel alive in a different way, but this one was the bad news one, the one that sent dread coiling in the pit of her stomach like a multi-headed snake and chilled her limbs. But she refused to be cowed.

She moves past him, her fingers still encased in his tethering her to him. "If you have to do this, do it tomorrow. Just not today, please." She ends on a whisper as she steps back and turns away, his arm stretching out as she moves, keeping contact with her for as long as he can until she slips from his grasp and walks down the hospital corridor, never looking back.

Tomorrow

She was distracting him. He'd watched her most of the day, from the moment she came down to the basement, or the Arrowcave as he knew she'd taken to calling it when he thought she couldn't hear him. She was wearing that dark red, she'd probably tell him it was burgundy or worse, plum, if he asked, pleated dress that left her arms bare and flowed freely over her thighs each time she walked. It wasn't as tight fitting as many of her other outfits and the skirt was marginally longer but it still clung to her upper body and afforded a flash of thigh each time she rose from her habitual position at her computers. But that wasn't the distracting part, the most interesting thing about it, and the part that kept drawing back his eye was the thin cut away at the back, a narrow band above the waistline that showed off a stretch of her lower back. Only an inch or two in height and it taunted him. Every time she had her back to him, his fingertips itched with the almost overwhelming urge to run over that narrow expanse of skin, to counteract its softness with his own bow callused flesh. 

She'd been wearing it the day of his mother's court trial, the day Diggle was taken down by a Vertigo tainted 'flu shot, the day before he'd killed to save her and broken his vow to Tommy's memory, a decision he could never regret, but all he could do was imagine that soft smooth skin under his hands, or if he was being honest his mouth, he wanted to run his tongue over that expanse of skin, over every expanse of skin, all that he could see and all he could imagine. 

"Oliver!"

He focused his eyes on Diggle's slightly concerned face.

"You ok man? You zoned out there for a minute."

"Yeah, yeah I'm fine."

He took a quick calming breath and forced his eyes not to move from John's face, not to look over to where Felicity was standing with her back, and that skin, tantalisingly within sight, but John noticed anyway, he always did and his concern morphed into a slightly knowing grin and a rakishly raised eyebrow.

"Ok, I'm going to go, Lyla and the baby are waiting and the world doesn't seem to be ending today so..."

"Yeah, of course, you really didn't need to come in today."

"The nurses shooed me out, so it was either pacing the halls or here."

"Don't argue with nurses."

"I hear that."

He smiled again and his eyes flicked towards Felicity who had turned and was resting lightly against her desk.

"Night, Felicity."

"Night John, give my love to Lyla and..." she paused, "has she got a name yet?"

"We're still discussing it." He didn't need to make air quotes for them to see them. "I'm sure we'll find one we can agree on, eventually."

"Good luck with that." Oliver responded. 

"Yeah." and with that and a casual two fingered wave over his shoulder he was gone and they were alone.

After a moment of strained silence he took two steps towards her, closing the distance to within arm's length and then stalled.

"Felicity..."

"You owe me something," she said, derailing his train of thought.

"I, I what?"

"Not dinner, obviously, that got well, blown all to hell, but I wasn't sure I could have eaten much anyway. Nervous, you remember?"

"Yes, I remember. Line forms behind you." He had to clench his fist suddenly to banish the image of being behind her.

"Yeah, that. I was going to wear the same dress today you know, but it's at the drycleaners. Not sure how well they'll do with blood and explosion debris, but they said they'd try."

"I'd buy you a new one," he started but she waved her hand and smiled, "but you don't have any money," she finished for him.

He swallowed thickly, "that dress is lovely," he said "it's a nice shade of um, plum?"

"Raspberry," she responded with that slight smile ghosting her lips, the one he knew meant she was holding back her laughter but only barely. He loved that smile, he loved all her smiles. 

"It's not the dress you owe me Oliver."

"Then what?" An explanation, he thought, a reason, a good one.

Her eyes slid from him before she spoke, "a kiss."

His mouth opened but nothing emerged.

"And not just any kiss, a goodnight kiss. Because if it had gone well, and it was before it wasn't, you would have seen me home. You would have walked me to my door and made sure I was safe, and we wouldn't have been nervous at all, not then and you would have kissed me, because you wanted to, because you knew I wanted you to and it would have been sweet and soft and full of promise."

She looked up at him then, meeting his eyes for the first time since she started and he didn't know what he expected to see, tears perhaps, or sorrow but it was neither. It was determination, tenacity, the same look she'd given him when she volunteered to walk into an Illegal gambling den, the same one when she said she wasn't leaving. Her life, her choice, and at this moment she was choosing him. It didn't matter if he was Oliver Queen or the Arrow there was no him more real than the one he saw in her eyes when she gazed steadily at him.

Her resolve was firm, his was shattered.

He closed the distance, sliding a hand to her waist and curling his fingers, the tips brushing against that sliver of skin that had tempted him all day. It was a soft as he'd imagined and it took all he had not to match his other hand to her hip and lift her onto the desk behind her to possess her, own her, claim her. Mark her skin with his teeth and his fingers, scars that would fade in a day or a week but that would attest to how much he needed her. Scars he'd long to give her again and again. Sweet she'd said, soft but full of promise, he'd try. For her he'd try. Her hand came up to cup his cheek and the darkness within him stepped back, making room for the light that was still inside him, the one that always rose to her call. Her eyes searched his and finding what they were seeking she gently smiled and he bent down to capture her upturned lips with his own. Her hand left his cheek and wound around the base of his neck as she drew herself more firmly into his embrace, his free hand followed the curve of her hips and waist to also slide across that exposed piece of flesh whilst her arm snaked under his to wrap firmly around his waist, fingers pressing against the thin cotton of his t-shirt so her could feel her hand like a hot brand against his back.

Through it all his mouth moved over hers, responding to her slight movements to keep maximum contact. His hand travelled up her back slowly tracing her spine until her reached the nape of her neck and then with a gentleness he was fast burning through he slid the smooth silicon band that held back her ponytail over her silken tresses and brought her hair cascading down. The scent of it engulfed him; spice and apple-wood smoke, how like her to smell like a sweet version of her name.

He ran his hand through the loosened mane feeling it slide coolly over his fingers and she tilted her head in response to his caresses, her lips still warm and pliant under his. Sliding his across in a slow sensuous motion the gentle friction stoking the flames without igniting them, letting her warmth surround him but then her nails scraped at the back of his scalp and he gasped, his teeth catching her bottom lip and she shivered against him. Sweet and soft, she'd asked but he couldn't do it. He was never going to kiss her again, or if not never then so far into the future he couldn't see it and he couldn't expect her to wait. This would be the only one he had. He passed his teeth over her bottom lip again and she shuddered more violently, her lips parting around a wordless moan from deep in her throat. His fingers wound the strands of her hair around them and formed a fist at the base of her skull to hold her in place as his tongue dived in; lingering, savouring, devouring, and she matched him. Softness was banished, this was possessive, insistent, and more than a touch savage.

The hand once splayed against his back clenched and pulled, yanking the t-shirt free of his much too restrictive leather pants and she slid her hand beneath the fabric, nails tracing over the lines of his back, both smooth and scarred and he arched back, almost breaking contact but she would have none of it. The hand still at the base of his skull clamped down keeping him within reach as she let her nails rake none-too-gently over his flesh. His hand left the nest of her hair and moved back to its previous position on her hips, his thumb ghosting perilously close to swell of her breast as it passed and with a quick grasp and a flexing of his biceps he lifted her over the edge of the desk and settled her on it. The roving hand slipped down again following the line of her dress until it reached the hem, rucked high on her thighs and his fingers danced gently over the exposed and heated flesh. At his touch she mewled, a soft helpless whimper passing from her throat to his and he groaned in frustration. He couldn't, he had to stop. His hand moved back to the relative safety of that thin slice of skin at the small of her back.

He could not fathom how long the this tableau played out, how many scratches she gouged into his back, how many times his hands ghosted over her form, from her back to her hair and back again and once or twice against his best intentions to those soft opened thighs but eventually black spots swam at the edge of his vision and the need for air finally overcame the desire in which he was drowning. Pulling her back until she was standing on her own feet again, though still firmly in his arms he finally broke the kiss and heart pounding and lungs heaving he took the smallest of possible steps back to allow her room to catch her own laboured breath.

After a few shuddering breaths she opened her eyes and swallowed, "you were going to say something, Oliver" she whispered, but he couldn't find his voice, his fingers were still idly skimming along that tormenting stretch of skin and the electricity of her flesh had momentarily robbed him of the spoken word.

Her breath ghosted across his face and she shifted slightly in his arms, her thigh brushing against him. 

"Felicity," he groaned and she thought 28, not really surprised to find she'd said it aloud.

"28?" He whispered against her lips, "Is that a score out of 30?"

"No, that's the 28th way I've heard you say my name, though that wasn't really saying, more exhaling it," she whispered back. 

She felt him smile against her, and her own smile rose to match his. 

"You've counted the ways I say your name?"

"You say it a lot," she countered. 

"I like your name." 

"I like yours too, they go well together."

"Felicity and Oliver."

"No, Oliver and Felicity, it sounds better that way. Like they could meld into one another."

His hands tightened reflexively on her hips as an image surfaced to illustrate her words.

"It's not going to happen, Oliver." 

"I know," he said sadly, resting his forehead against hers breathing in the last scent of her, the moment of bliss evaporating in the cold light of reality. "It can't. I'm..."

"No, not that, that's going to happen. That's not what I meant."

"Felicity?" He pulled back from her slightly so he could see her luminous eyes, though everything physical in him wanted to press closer.

Her fingers were on his lips again, their sensitivity heightened from the fervour of their recent kiss, and part of him quaked as she lightly brushed her thumb along his bottom lip, he watched her eyes follow her thumb's path before she pulled them back up to his and let her hand drop to join its twin against his chest. Splayed over his rapidly beating heart.

She took a deep breath.

"You're not going to say it. That's what's not going to happen. Because I know how you'll start, I know what you'll say. You'll say I'm sorry but what you'll mean is that you can't be with me; you'll say how you can't be Oliver Queen and the Arrow even if you want to be, even though you tried. You'll offer a thin jagged shard of hope but you'll be thinking how being with me puts me in danger as if I didn't walk open eyed into danger every day already. You'll say something you think is brave and noble and heroic, but it isn't. It isn't any of those things, but you are, and because you are I'm not going to let you say them. If you try, if you start to, I'm going to kiss you. I don't care if we're alone or in a room full of people, I don't care who'll see us or if it's just us, I don't care if the world is splintering apart around us or it's a moment of peace. Do you understand? I don't care. If you start to utter those words, those words which aren't brave or noble or heroic I'm going to stop you. I'm going to cover your lips with mine and I'm going to swallow those words as you try to say them. Because they're not you, they're not who you are. It might have been you once, before, before the island, before you came back, perhaps even after in that first year but it's not you now. Not the man in front of me with his heart under my hands. And don't think you can find a way around my kiss, because If you're not breathing the same air, it you're saying them over the comms I'll transfer your connection so you can tell Diggle or Roy or Captain Lance how much you wish you could be with them, but that you can't and then you'll have to explain that to them. If you're on the phone with me I'll hang up or talk over you, if you send a text or an email I'll delete it unread...and then I'll send you a photo of me, of a part of me, an expanse of skin that you can see but not touch to make you remember that you want to, that you want to touch all of me. My lips, my thighs, this stretch of skin where my neck meets my shoulder." And this time it is his eyes that follow her fingers as they fluttered lightly down her graceful neck to settle at the juncture with her shoulder, a place he does indeed long to touch. 

"Or perhaps that part of my lower back that you couldn't stop caressing when you were kissing me. You won't always know what part of me it is, you'll have to imagine and keep imagining it until you see me and you try and tell me and I'll have to quieten you again and then you can try and discover it, to match the flat image to the warm breathing reality. I'm going to silence you Oliver. I'm going to stop your voice and I'm going to keep doing it until you remember that I'm smarter than you and you finally know what I know."

She slides past his nerveless trembling grasp, her hand trailing across his stomach and arm before she reaches over and gathers her things, hits a few keys to reboot the security system and heads for the stairs. It takes him a long moment to calm his mind and gather his wits and she's almost to the top before he speaks. 

"What will I know?"

She turns and smiles that flashbulb bright smile that had first won his heart.

"That love is worth fighting for, and you're not done fighting."


End file.
